style="font-size:15px;"> “We talk terms,” Val said. “My terms.”
“And they are?” Novak’s voice had a humoring tone.
“The kill fee, to start. Five hundred thousand euro, expenses excluded.”
There were assorted snorts and snickers from the men assembled. Novak looked amused. “You think well of yourself, Valery. But why a kill fee? It is not necessary to kill her. I will take care of that personally.”
“Bringing her to you alive is more difficult than a straight kill,” Val said. “I require no interference, no backup team. Live webcam conversations with him upon request.” He gestured toward Imre. “As well as your solemn word before witnesses that he will not be harmed.”
Novak’s pale, poisonous gaze narrowed. Val kept his face impassive. His heart thundered.
This was a wild gamble. Novak had a pathological hatred of being lied to. There were whispers about what he had done to his wife years ago to punish her for lying to him. It was said he’d cut off his own son’s finger when he was a child as punishment for lying about some trivial childhood sin. The underlying message was brutally clear. If the boss did that to his own son, what might he do to a piece of shit nobody like me? It had been a very powerful deterrent to lying.
But the corollary was that in his own twisted way, he considered himself a man of honor. If Novak gave his word not to harm Imre in front of his men, he would consider himself bound by it. Val hoped.
On the other hand, the man was utterly mad, after all.
“Vajda.” Imre cleared his throat, coughing. “You cannot—”
“Shut up, old man,” Val said harshly. “I did not ask you.”
Tense moments crawled by. Novak pondered, rubbing his chin. “The demand for money is absurd,” he said. “But I do appreciate a man who gives good sport. For this, I will spare the finger—for tonight. And in return…” His voice trailed off, eyes sparkling with amusement.
Val waited, not allowing himself to swallow or breathe.
“You will provide me with video footage of your affair with Steele,” Novak said. “Something juicy and explicitly sexual, something to entertain the men on dull nights. You will have a few minutes of communication with your friend. If at any point the video rendezvous is missed, I will start to remove pieces of him. I require my first installment—let me see—Monday. I am giving you a few extra days of grace, to allow for travel time,” he concluded, his tone magnanimous. “After that, I will expect something every three days.”
Val’s jaw ached with tension. “I cannot guarantee—”
“Then I will start with his fingers,” Novak said lightly. “Do not try to intimidate me, Vajda.” His grin stretched wider. “Look into my eyes. Do I look like a man who has anything to fear from your poison gas?”
Val’s fingers tightened on the ampule. The faces of the other men in the room were rigid with terror. Novak’s was alight with triumph.
“Do we have an understanding?” Novak asked.
Val nodded. Novak jerked and wheezed with laughter. He gestured to one of his men. “Give him his things.”
The man jerked into movement, producing Val’s wallet, cell phone, Palm Pilot. He dropped them onto the table.
Val pocketed the items. He seized the file that held the photographs, and shoved the case that held the torque under his arm.
“I need this,” he said. “For pretexting an approach.”
“As you wish.” Novak’s voice was oily with satisfaction. “Be sure to bring it back when you deliver her. I wish to kill her with it.”
Val gave Imre one last look. The old man’s eyes were hollow and bleak. Val felt helpless. “We will speak on the videophone,” he said.
Imre did not reply. Novak’s men shrank away from Val as he made for the door, their eyes on the ampule. No one accompanied him as he made his way out of the labyrinth of subterranean passageways beneath the warehouse district in Köbanya. He remembered the way. The fully functioning businesses above were money laundering fronts for Novak’s other, more profitable businesses. He had organized the front company documentation for some of them himself many years ago.
The men at the guardposts stared at him as he stumbled out into the frigid night. He had left his coat behind. Snow brushed his battered face. It felt good against inflamed flesh. The water in his hair and shirt promptly froze solid. He shuffled aimlessly through ankle deep slush. Whoever saw his blood-spattered face scurried away, unnerved.
So they should. He was soiled, corrupt. Sent out to play roles he could not shake, despite all his desperate effort. Whore, liar, betrayer.
Killer. Worse. Delivering Steele alive to Novak was more cruel than the swift mercy of a bullet through the nape. Far worse than delivering her into Georg Luksch’s hands. Killing her outright would be kinder.
And he had to make her trust him. Hah. If not for Imre, he would not know the meaning of the word. But if he could not do it…
He seemed to stumble and shuffle for hours through the pelting snow. He stopped on the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, and stared up at the pitiless, implacable stone face of one of the lions. Wind whipped his breath from his mouth. He saw Imre, hunched in his cramped kitchen, frying egg-soaked bread for him as he lectured on Socrates, Descartes.
Imre, with blood streaming from his nose and mouth, his eyes full of mute suffering. Imre, with mutilated hands, dripping blood.
Val lurched to the side, and vomited up his guts. The heaving went on long after his stomach was empty. His eyes streamed, his nose ran. The dark water of the Danube roiled sluggishly below. He longed for the icy, airless darkness of it. Not for the first time. He thought of his mother.
No. It was not his nature. Fuck them. He was too angry to give in.
He straightened, wiping his face with a sleeve stiff with ice, and resumed his shambling way to the hotel, the jewelry case and file of photos clamped beneath his arm. The conversation with Hegel flashed through his mind. It seemed so long ago.
He began to laugh. At least he no longer had to worry about Hegel hurting Imre. His friend could only be savaged by one villain at a time.
Laughter hurt his cracked ribs. He stopped it.
At least Novak did not know about the child. He clung to that.
He was still clutching the ampule in his hand, he realized, though his numb fingers barely felt it. His hand tightened on the hard cylinder. He broke off the tip and inhaled deeply.
It was a sample vial of a new scent, blended exclusively for him by his personal parfumeur in Provence. An extravagant affectation, but fuck it, he had the money. Why not? He liked good smells.
The scent was voluptuous, hints of sweet wood, fleshy depths of forest mushrooms, the warm, spicy tang of pine, lavender and sage. A pathetically small victory in the face of the leverage that Novak wielded on him, but he would cling to any minor triumph.
Three
